


Can't Keep a Good Man Down

by kingcaboodle



Series: Misery Loves Company [4]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: (kinda), Cullen Has Issues, Cullen Rutherford Bashing, F/M, Fix-It, Hawke Sided with Mages, Inquisitor Sided with Mages, Qunari, Qunari Culture and Customs, Tal-Vashoth Culture and Customs, Vashoth
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-13
Updated: 2017-06-16
Packaged: 2018-09-17 05:15:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 15,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9306887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kingcaboodle/pseuds/kingcaboodle
Summary: "The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing." Cullen Rutherford had made a habit of running from his misdeeds. But nothing stays hidden for long, and the demons of his past, present, and future soon confront him.





	1. Arrival

He wasn’t a good man, not in any sense of the word. Anyone who had known him knew this to be true. And yet – whether out of politeness or theatrics – they still feigned surprise when his veneer of decency slipped, revealing the horrid creature hiding behind it. It had happened at Kinloch, it had happened in Kirkwall, and – slowly, but surely – it was happening here in Skyhold. He could feel it in the stares of his recruits, hear it whispered on their lips after a long day of training. The whispers that had begun as negligible wisps brushed aside on his way back to Haven’s chantry. Whispers that had billowed, much like the smoke curling from the village’s smoldering remains, ballooning until they were a constant roar inside of his head. Even louder than the need for lyrium singing in his veins.

 

Cullen Rutherford was by no means a good man. But that fact was not going to stop him from pretending.

 

He smiles tightly, his hand wrapped around the sword at his hip. “I can assure you that the Inquisitor has no need for _another_ mercenary group.” _And another_ Qunari _one at that,_ he adds silently, his eyes straying to the large, gold-tipped horns curling out from the hood of its cloak.

 

“We’re not here for the Inquisitor.” Its voice is low and rich. Something about its silkiness fills Cullen with unease. “We’re here for the Inquisition.” The Qunari leans forward, dark eyes glinting in the candlelight. “We were directed here, Commander, under the assumption that our services would be desired. But if you feel that you are in a position to turn away potential allies, then by all means.”

 

The scrape of a chair, the whispers inside of his head growing louder and louder as the Qunari’s hulking frame rises and fills the room. “W-wait!” He holds up one leather-gloved hand, the sweat beginning to bead on his forehead. “You’re right, with the position that we’re in, we have no choice but to,” he stops himself. “We need all the help we can get. Regardless of the source.” His hands grip the edge of the desk as he attempts to stop the floor from dropping out from under his feet. “I will make the necessary accommodations for your men. I’m assuming you’re their leader,” he trails off, realizing that in the hour that they have been speaking he has failed to learn its name.

 

“Adaar,” the hood falls back, the Qunari’s black eyes still sparkling at him in a way that makes his stomach churn. He ignores the scars that mark its face, ignores those blasted eyes that send the maggots crawling under his skin. “Shokrakar, our leader, designated me as the liaison between your people and mine.”

 

“Well then,” he keeps his eyes on the horns, not daring to look away even for a moment. “Adaar, is it? We look forward to any assistance that you and your men can offer.”

 

A predatory smile tips the corner of its mouth up. “Perhaps there’s some good in you after all, Commander.”

 

The slam of his door. His sword clattering to the ground as he falls to his knees. The bile of his true nature rising in his throat.


	2. Choices

 

When her parents had left the Qun, they could not have known what struggles awaited them ahead. They had been raised under the watchful eyes of the _Tamassrans_ , had been told of the unimaginable horrors and savagery that made up the fates of those awful traitors to the Qun. The _Tal-Vashoth_ , “true gray,” beasts with no purpose who spiraled into insanity without direction. But they had been young ( _“relatively young,”_ her father would say, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he smiled), and in love ( _“very much in love,”_ her mother would say, lacing her fingers thorough his and nipping his ear affectionately), and so they fled. She had been brought up in a world in which one’s choices were worth more than one’s weight in gold. _“We should never be trapped by the choices we make, Vaati.”_ Her mother would say, brushing her thumb against her cheek. _“Our choices define, but they do not confine. Fate doesn’t always negate change.”_

 

She hadn’t understood it then, choosing instead to crawl into her mother’s lap and doze off while listening to her voice rumbling up from inside her chest. But sitting on one of Skyhold’s walls, staring out into the early morning fog, Vaati begins to see what she had meant. She thumbs the parchment in her lap absently, her mind straying away from the hazy shadow running through the fog and drifting somewhere north, past Ferelden and up to the Free Marches.

 

“Aren’t you looking awfully pensive this morning.” A stubbled cheek scrapes hers, the smack of his kiss bouncing off the walls of the fortress. “I didn’t think Human-watching could be so interesting.”

 

She looks at him as he sidles up next to him, his hair still ruffled from sleep, his chest bare under his open coat. “You didn’t have to come looking for me, Kaariss. I would’ve come back inside eventually.” She pinches his cheek playfully. “Besides, I would’ve thought that you were spending the morning with Katoh. You seemed eager to go to bed with her last night.” She notes the fresh bruise along his jaw, and the color that rushes to his cheeks as he swats her hand away. Directing her eyes back down to the training field, she sighs. “Anyway, you’re just in time for the show.”

 

“So that’s the famous Commander Rutherford, hm?” Kaariss squints, one sharp fingernail picking lazily at his teeth. “Doesn’t look like much if you ask me. I was expecting a body cut from the finest marble, a war-hardened face softened by a – well, no, not that look.” He frowns. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

 

“Because that _infamous_ Commander isn’t worth soliloquizing over,” Vaati replies flatly, glancing back down at the letter in her lap. “After we’re done with this, Kaariss, I swear, I’m going back home. I know it’s the fate of the world we’re talking about, but is it worth working with someone like him for?”

 

He hums. “Yes, you were rather disturbed by that intelligence report, weren’t you.”

 

“Disturbed,” she repeats incredulously. “Of course I was ‘disturbed.’ A man, whose reputation puts him in the center of two of the most recognizable mage suppression movements in recent memory, suddenly placed as an overseer of the mage rebellion. The _rebellion_ , Kaariss.”

 

He rubs his thumb along her brow, chuckling. “Come now, don’t frown like that. You’ll get lines.” When she shakes herself away from his probing hand, he sighs heavily. “I know that this is an issue very dear to your heart, _Saarebas_ –”

 

“Don’t call me that.”

 

“But,” he taps the tip of her nose, “the Inquisitor is a mage, isn’t she? I’m sure she has her Templar dog on a very tight leash.” Kaariss rises to his feet, placing a wet kiss in the center of her forehead. “But if you’re that concerned, I promise that we won’t let anyone make you tranquil.” Straightening his back, he grips the lapels of his coat. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, Katoh should be waking up right about now and I’m very eager to pick up where we left off last night.” He ruffles her hair. “Cheer up, Kadan. We’re in this for the long haul, you know.”

 

She grunts as he saunters off, resting her elbow on her thigh as she turns her attention back to the man on the field. Rutherford lunges towards the training dummy, his sword appearing feather-light in his capable hands. Vaati watches his form, watches the way his muscles ripple as he strikes again and again. For a moment she can almost picture the Ferelden Circle Tower. She can smell the fear of the apprentices, huddling together with clutched hands, their fevered tongues hastily reciting the Chant of Light before hearing his ragged breath coming closer and closer in their direction, his sword scraping the stone behind him.

 

Her shoulders tense, her head throbbing as she tries to chase the image away. When Shokrakar had told them that they would be travelling to Skyhold, Vaati had been overjoyed. There had been rumors coming out of Orlais, first as whispers before they ballooned into a constant, deafening roar. The Herald of Andraste, sole survivor of the conclave. Vaati had been tasked with making her way to the temple. It could have easily been her standing at the mouth of the Breach. Worse yet, it could’ve been her smoldering remains lying buried in the ruins in the Frostbacks. But the Inquisitor – a Dalish elf – had survived. Had done more than survived, had _thrived_. Securing the Hinterlands, freeing the mages, facing down the Blight itself! Shokrakar’s briefing on the situation had left her head spinning in the _best_ of ways.

 

That was, until, she had been held back once the group was dismissed, Shokrakar dropping an extra intelligence report into her hands.

 

The commander takes the stairs two at a time, his brow glistening with sweat, his shirt thrown casually over his shoulder. “Qunari,” he says, nodding curtly when he sees her. “Adaar, was it? I hope your people found your lodgings comfortable.”

 

“Yes, you’ve been very hospitable, Commander. Our troop is,” she shudders at the thought of what Kaariss and Katoh are getting up to, “very _cozy_.” At his look of confusion, she changes the subject. “You’re very capable. I would hate to be the straw dummy that gets on your bad side.”

 

He perks up, his eyebrows lifting slightly as he takes a cautious step forward. “Are you a warrior?” He asks, the sincerity in his tone making her sick to her stomach. “I’ve gotten a few pointers from the Iron Bull – I’m not sure if you’ve gotten a chance to meet him, but he’s very hard to miss – but I always welcome any tips when it comes to training the men.”

 

“Not me,” she says, waving her hand dismissively. “I’m quite useless with a sword, really. But I have been around enough terrible swordsmen to know good form when I see it.”

 

She worries briefly that he’s going to ask her for her weapon of choice, but instead he looks awkwardly down at his feet, his already-pinkened cheeks glowing red. “If you’re around tomorrow morning, perhaps you’d like to train with me? I always welcome a sparring partner.”

 

“Careful,” she warns, only half-joking, “I might have to take you up on that.”

 

He smiles at her, a genuine one completely unlike the grimace he had put on in his office. It’s a smile that splits his face, stretching the pink scar on his upper lip. A smile that travels from his mouth to his eyes, causing them to dance warmly, crinkling at the sides just like her father’s did. A smile that she doesn’t necessarily dislike, but one that fills her with dread all the same.

 

She doesn’t speak, her stomach churning unpleasantly as they seem frozen together, lost in the early-morning silence. Rutherford is the first to break the lull, rubbing the back of his neck almost bashfully. “Well, ah, I should wash up for the day. I’m sure the other advisors would find it most unpleasant if I went into our meeting,” he gestures to himself, “like this.” Running his fingers through his hair, he gives her another gentle smile. “But please do think about tomorrow morning, and,” he pauses, almost as though he’s hesitant to continue. “And should you require anything, you know where I’ll be.”

 

Vaati watches his back as he leaves, waiting until he disappears over the battlements to focus on the now-shredded scrap of parchment in her lap.


	3. Love and War

Cullen forces himself to keep his eyes on the target in front of him, forces himself to stop his gaze from wandering to the stone steps leading to the training field. _She_ had _said that she was coming, hadn’t she?_ He combs his thoughts for any sort of affirmation from Adaar, anything that would have definitely put her in front of him on this early morning. Apparently – if the crowd gathered along the wall was any indication – he was not the only one hoping that she would show up.

 

“Cullen!” He glances up to see the Inquisitor waving at him as she skips over to the targets. His eyes dart from her messy snowy hair to her rumpled clothes. She comes to a bouncing halt in front of him, a crooked, sharp-toothed grin on her face. For a moment Cullen wishes that they were being represented by someone a little more _stately_. “I heard that you’re getting your butt handed to you by Vaati.”

 

“Beg pardon?” He asks, eyes narrowing in confusion.

 

“Cas told me last night before bed.” She says, frowning at him as though _he_ is the problem here. “Isn’t that why everyone’s here? To watch Vaati kick your ass?” She turns, and Cullen sees Cassandra trailing behind her almost sheepishly. “Back me up on this, Cas.”

 

Cassandra clears her throat, a bit of color rising to her high cheekbones. “I was informed by Shokrakar that there would be a training exercise. It seems you invited one of her best.” At Cullen’s blank look, she frowns. “The head of the company? As military commander I would expect you to at least be on speaking terms with the leaders of our supporting forces.”

 

He reddens at her disapproving tone. “I was told that I would be answering to Adaar.” He replies defensively. “Their leader put her in the position of liaison.”

 

“Yeah,” Lavellan snorts, “liaison between her foot and your teeth. She’s gonna demolish you.”

 

“I hate to agree after all you’ve done for us,” a velvety voice purrs, “but I’m inclined to side with your Inquisitor, Commander.” Another Qunari, a male, strides up to them, Adaar tucked securely under his arm. The sight, for whatever reason, makes Cullen’s blood boil. “Our Vaati isn’t one of your clumsy soldiers. She’s bred from fighters, you know.” He nuzzles her cheek affectionately, and Cullen notices that she does not draw away from him. “We wouldn’t want for you to get hurt and rescind your accommodations.”

 

Cullen forces a smile, his eyes cemented to the thick arm around Adaar’s shoulders. “So you’re Vaati,” he says, ignoring her companion and forcing himself to meet her eyes. He doesn’t know why he assumed Adaar was a first name. It wasn’t as though they were familiars. _Yet._

 

“Guilty as charged,” she replies. There is something in her equally-strained smile that causes a wave of relief to wash over him. For a moment he allows himself to imagine that she is equally unnerved by the touchiness of her _friend_. That she too was looking forward to a quiet morning of training together, rather than the spectacle they found themselves putting on. Also as though she reads his thoughts, she whistles. The sound is low and pleasant in his ears. “You certainly know how to draw a crowd, Commander.”

 

He smiles softly. “Yes, they’ve all woken up early to watch you give me the business, I’m afraid.” Cullen licks his lips, his mouth suddenly uncomfortably dry. “We don’t have to give them the satisfaction, you know. We could always,” he pauses, “could always try again when things aren’t quite so conspicuous.”

 

But her eyes – much to his dismay and delight – glint mischievously, much like the way they had during their first meeting, and she grins. _It’s funny_ , he thinks _, her smile doesn’t look quite so ferocious in the sunlight_.

 

“I think we ought to give the people what they want.” She says, shaking herself loose from her companion’s grasp, “Put on a show.”

 

He feels himself grin back, mirroring her in both expression and earnestness. For a moment the world seems to slow around him, his focus only on the woman in front of him. For a moment he is almost completely deaf to the warnings hidden in the everyday, the looming threat over his shoulder shrinking down until he can finally breathe easy. He is so caught up in the feeling that he almost misses it. _Almost_.

 

“Good luck, _Saarebas_.”

 

A whisper that brings him back to the Gallows, thick black smoke curling in his lungs. Cullen feels his muscles tense, his vision swimming as he watches her swat the Qunari’s arm sternly, chasing him away from the training field.

 

_I must’ve heard wrong_ , he reasons, rolling out his neck in an attempt to disperse the growing tension. _I would have noticed, I_ always _notice._ He allows himself to believe, even as he feels the creeping doubt bubbling up under his skin. _Daggers_ , he almost sighs in relief when she pulls them from her hip. _Thank the Maker, she’s got daggers._

 

“It isn’t often that I find myself sparring with a rogue.” He says, raising the wooden practice shield and lifting his sword. “I just hope you intend to put on a clean match.” But there is a lightness in his voice that he doesn’t recognize, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth despite the twisting in his stomach.

 

They circle each other, the air between them crackling with electricity. Despite her large frame, she is surprisingly quick on her feet, taking light, hopping steps almost as though she’s dancing around him. _Unsurprising for a rogue_ , he reminds himself. And yet, he still finds his focus straying, lost along the curvature of her muscular thighs, travelling along the slope of her waist, and settling on her –

 

“You’re going to have to focus, Rutherford.” Her voice is in his ear, and he whips around in time to block an incoming blow. “Was the sun in your eyes?” She asks. Teasingly, sweetly, laughingly. The sound reminds him of the music wafting up from Kirkwall’s red light district.

 

_The sun in his eyes_ , he thinks, trying to shake himself back into focus, _stars more like_. Her skin reminds him of sitting out in a hastily thrown together camp. _Copper, that’s it. The warm copper of that mug I had always liked._ Her skin, warm copper shining under the morning sun, charging at him, her gold-tipped horns glittering. His mind settled he sees an opening, dodging her swinging fist and blocking with his shield.

 

She laughs and the sound is almost enough to make his knees go weak. “Look who finally woke up!” To his confusion, she throws the daggers to the ground. “It appears that I may have to get serious.”

 

“You’re just now getting serious?” He asks, lifting an eyebrow. “I don’t know how the Qunari do things, but some of us _arrive_ serious.”

 

In the time it takes him to blink, she floats towards him, her quick feet making him dizzy. He feels her hand come down gently on his forehead – the gentle swat one might give a distracted child. “Oh yes,” she says, “very serious.”

 

He looks at her starry eyes, her cursed copper skin, and her beastly smile. The knot returns in his neck, tension building in his jaw. _She wants to get serious_ , he reasons. He takes it as a threat.


	4. A Lie of Omission

For the briefest of moments she allows herself to think of it as having fun. There is something fun about it. The buzz of the crowd, the spring in her step, the way that the light bounces off of his sunshiny hair. Yes, for a moment Vaati is content to bounce around on the balls of her feet, delivering gentle open-handed swats to his body. It was the same lighthearted technique she had developed when helping Kaariss with his reflexes. No weapons, no magic, no stress.

 

But as she flounces away after delivering another pat to his chest, she sees something flash in the Commander’s eyes. Something that sends an unpleasant chill down her spine. “Are you doing alright, Rutherford?” She asks, her wavering tone betraying her casual attitude.

 

He doesn’t answer, his square jaw clenching as his fist tightens around the hilt of his sword. Time seems to slow around them, and Vaati knows that something bad is heading their way. She recognizes the glint in his eyes, realizing what is happening even before he does. His teeth bared, his eyes wild, his sword raised – he lunges forward quicker than their sparring pace warrants. _He’s going to kill me_ , she thinks darting out of his reach, the blade whistling as it slices the air.

 

“Now, now, Commander,” she says once she’s put some distance between them. “I thought we were having a clean match here. Something to get the early morning blood pumping.” But his ears are deaf to her reminders, and he charges her again. Vaati yelps, dropping to the ground and sweeping his leg in an attempt to buy herself some time to get away. “ _Watch it_ , Rutherford,” she warns as he lands on his back with a thud. “I’ve been going easy on you, but I won’t hesitate to get serious. I think it’s time we call this.”

 

They stare each other down, breath ragged, eyes dark. She sees him thinking, his shoulders rising and falling with every strained breath, his sword and shield held stiffly at his sides. She holds her hands up in front of her defensively, sighing in relief as she sees his shoulders relax, his arms lowering. But as quickly as the relief washes over her, it’s replaced by panic as he springs towards her with a cry.

 

 _I’m going to die_. The thought races through her mind as she flinches in anticipation for the blow. _I’m going to die, I’m going to_ –

 

She hears the explosion before she sees it, the shockwave sending waves of telekinetic energy pulsing through the field. Vaati opens her eyes to see the dust beginning to settle, the Commander flat on his back in the dirt, a dazed look on his face. From the sidelines she hears Kaariss’s booming laugh. “That’s our _Saarebas_!” He cries approvingly. “I told you she wouldn’t be able to keep it in, Katoh. That’s five gold from you, pay up.”

 

“You did well, Kadan.” She feels the pride in Shokrakar’s warm voice, the other woman’s arm coming down comfortingly around her shoulders. “I know you tried.”

 

But Vaati is in a daze, her eyes still drawn to the man lying motionless on the ground. She had never been ashamed of her magic, adhering to the precautions typical with the apostate life. She had been raised to understand that not everyone viewed magic as a gift, to understand the history of her people’s own complicated relationship with the _Saarebas_ of Seheron and Par Vollen. But combing through the information given to her by Shokrakar, the intel reports on just how _seriously_ this particular ex-Templar took his duties. It was enough to strike fear into even the most adamant of mages.

 

She hears a strangled noise of relief escape her throat as Rutherford rises from the ground, and she unlatches herself from Shokrakar to trot over to him. “I’m so sorry, Commander, I didn’t intend to –”

 

But his eyes are cold as he stares past her, “Inquisitor.” He says flatly, rising slowly to his feet. “May I have a word with you?”

 

She turns to see Lavellan at her side. Vaati chews on the inside of her cheek, trying again. “Cullen,” she says, the first time his first name has ever left her mouth, “please.”

 

But it is to no avail, and he doesn’t spare a glance in her direction. “If you’d join me in my office,” he says, his eyes hard.

 

“No can do, Cullen.” Lavellan replies. “I’ve got to meet with Varric about something and I’m already late.” Turning, she grins up at Vaati. “That was _incredible_! How did you do that? I’ve never actually met a force mage, you know, only heard about them. But seeing it – creators, _actually seeing it_! Amazing! D’you think you can show me how you do that?”

 

Vaati forces her attention away from Cullen’s receding back, ignores the knot forming in her stomach as she tries to put on a smile for the Inquisitor. The fun was over, after all, and it was time to get serious.  

 

 


	5. Sadgasm

He doesn’t see her for weeks, carefully avoiding the soothing tones of her voice and the inescapable pull of her Void-colored eyes. That isn’t to say that he doesn’t think of her. _Maker_ , does he think of her. He thinks of her wounded expression as he stalked off of the field, the genuine fear in her eyes when he made that final charge, the undeniable evidence of her particular affliction uncovered in hindsight. Cullen leans forward, rubbing his temples. But it is incredibly difficult to think of the danger at hand when his thoughts are clouded with her sparkling laugh, and the way that her impossibly-dark eyes had glittered as she danced around him, her hands soft and warm against his skin.

 

He grits his teeth, trying to focus on the papers in front of him. There is far too much at stake to get wrapped up in the tangle of yet _another_ mage. Between Hawke’s leads on the Wardens, the investigation into Samson’s whereabouts, preparations for the ball in Orlais – he simply could not afford to lose himself in any distractions. His eyes trace absently over Dagna’s report. The report that would allow them to choke Samson at the source of his power. But even as he scans the page, his eyes following every curling loop of her handwriting, his mind is lost somewhere on the training field.

 

_I could’ve listened to her_ , he thinks. _I could’ve given her a chance to defend herself instead of storming off the way I did._ Cullen rubs his brow, his shoulders tightening uncomfortably. _She never said she_ wasn’t _a mage, Rutherford. You just assumed._

 

To say he was surprised was an understatement. He had allowed himself to get lost in the embarrassment of losing, especially losing to an opponent who didn’t seem to be taking the bout as seriously as he had. It hadn’t helped that with every girlish giggle his focus grew a little dimmer, each bounce sending shivers up his spine. He shifts in his chair, his abdomen clenching almost as tightly as his shoulders. The way her plump lips curled around his name, her tongue rounding out every syllable. _Maker’s breath, as if watching her dance around like that wasn’t distraction enough._

 

The sweat beads on his forehead, the pressure growing below his belt becoming almost too much to bear. He hears his name on her _wicked, wicked_ tongue. _“Cullen, please.”_

He brings his hand to his mouth, pulling the leather glove off roughly with his teeth and tossing it carelessly to the side. Weeks’ worth of that strained plea echo inside of his head, the sight of her – breathless and teary-eyed – standing in front of him. Fleeing from the field and shutting himself in his office because _it cannot happen again, I won’t let it happen again._

 

_“Cullen, please.”_

His breath is ragged as he grips himself, his hand moving in slow, deliberate strokes. His hand is calloused and he screws up his eyes in an attempt to call back the sensation of her soft touch. The sound of her laugh in his ears. _“Careful, Commander,”_ her tone cheeky, eyes twinkling. He lifts his hips to meet the quickening strokes, almost tasting the salt of her skin on his tongue.

 

Cullen groans, biting into his sleeve in an attempt to muffle the noise. He had promised that he would never again – not after what had happened at Kinloch. But the thought of her – _Maker_ , the mere thought of her. Pinned beneath him, her soft body for his eyes alone, sloping curves and copper skin yielding under his wandering hands. Those damnable eyes, filled with tears, filled with stars, filled with _longing_. Her lips around his name like the Chant itself. _“Cullen, please. Cullen, please. Cullen –”_

He moans as his hips jerk, his release coming in short swift spurts.

 

_I can’t continue like this._ He comes to the conclusion as he cleans himself up, straightening the papers on his desk in an attempt to hide the evidence of his overtime activities. _Hiding away in here, fearing the sight of her, fearing these feelings that arise at the mere thought of –_  

 

He rises, filled with a renewed sense of determination. He is ready to make things right.


	6. Wicked Thoughts and Sorry Tongues

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did someone say double update?

The first thing she notices is that he is only wearing one glove. The second is that he can barely meet her eyes. “Do you need something from me, Commander?” She asks, closing the cover of her notebook. The last few weeks at Skyhold had been an absolute flurry of excitement. Between the Champion of Kirkwall’s arrival, the growing investigation into the magister Corypheus, and the influx of information sent to her from Taarlok on behalf of their mysterious information vendor, Vaati had barely had enough time to focus on the romantic entanglements of the Valo Kas, let alone the hot-and-cold moods of a certain ex-Templar.

 

“I,” he looks as though he wasn’t expecting the question, and he runs his fingers through his hair dazedly. “Yes, I would like to, ah – may I have a moment?” He gestures to her, “With you, I mean. May I have a moment with you.”

 

She throws a look to Kaariss, who had been in the middle of waxing poetic about the Tevinter mage he saw in the library. He shoots Cullen a suspicious look before rolling his eyes theatrically. “Alright, go on.”

 

“What can I do for you?” She asks as Cullen leads her away from the gardens, opening the door to a small altar room. “Are you looking for another fight? Perhaps you’ve come to make me tranquil.” She folds her arms across her chest tightly, giving him the driest look she can muster.

 

He flinches, rubbing the back of his neck. “I suppose I deserve that. But you’ve got to understand just how I felt finding out the way that I did.”

 

“I don’t have to understand anything.” She snaps back. “You don’t know me, there’s no reason for you to look so wounded. I wasn’t hiding anything because there was no reason to hide.” He opens his mouth, but she feels the carefully-hoarded anger of the last few weeks bubbling up past the brim. “Your inquisitor is a mage, half of your forces are mages, there are mages among the Inquisitor’s inner circle,” she feels her reason unhinging, the tears stinging her eyes. “ _You_ must understand why this feels like an unnecessary attack.”

 

Cullen is silent, his eyes weary. Vaati draws her hand across her face, tucking back a strand of moonlight-colored hair that escaped from the messy bun atop her head. “Four weeks, Cullen. Four weeks I tried to catch up with you, to tell you that I didn’t intend to use that spell, that I didn’t intend for our friendly sparring match to turn into a point of contention.” Squeezing the bridge of her nose, she sighs. “Anyway, it isn’t important. I understand that you’ve thrived by holding onto your prejudices, and I don’t intend to change that. Our relationship will continue on the same professional –”

 

She is caught off guard by his ungloved hand reaching out to grasp her own. “Vaati, wait,” he pleads, pulling her close enough to smell the candlelight caught in his hair. “It isn’t that I didn’t want to see you, I just,” he falters, a wounded look making its way across his face. “I just didn’t know what I would say.” His thumb traces absent circles into the center of her palm. “The moment you cast that spell, it reminded me of someone who I haven’t thought about in quite some time. Someone who I’ve been living to forget.”

 

“From the circle tower,” she says gravely before she can think to stop herself.

 

His eyebrows shoot up. “How did you,” the question hangs off the tip of his tongue, and he shakes his head. “It’s not important. What’s important is that I didn’t know how to face you, how I could look at you without seeing her.” He gives her another pained look, one that makes her want to recoil from his gentle touch. “Awful things happened because of mistakes that _I_ made. Mistakes that I would hate to see repeat themselves.”

 

“What are you saying, Cullen?” She asks carefully, her mind straying to the sachet of documents tucked safely at her hip.

 

Something in his eyes – something past the sincerity and the heartfelt pleas – darkens, and his mouth sets into a grim line. “I’m saying that as a mage, you of all people know the dangers that magic brings with it. I’ve seen firsthand all the horrors that magic can bring, seen what monstrosities mages can become if they aren’t careful.” A flicker, his hand releasing hers and straying up to gently cup her cheek. “I would hate to see the same become of you.”

 

“Oh Cullen,” she covers his hand with her own, and for a moment she sees the hope flicker briefly across his face. This hope quickly dissipates, however, as she pulls the hand from her face. “I think you would be best served to mind your own business.” Her eyes are narrow, the ice seeping from both her voice and her fingertips. “Let me make one thing perfectly clear to you. I have lived as a mage for the last twenty-three years. I have seen my fair share of abominations, and I have seen the damage done by your Templar Order.” She takes a step forward, and another one, and another one, until his back is flat against the wall, the panic evident on his face. “You want to protect me? Fine. Protect me. Do you _job_ as military commander, and keep your nose out of other people’s affairs.” She pats his cheek roughly. “After all, I would hate to see something happen to you.”

 

Turning on her heel, she storms out of the altar room and back out into the receding light of the garden. Kaariss is lounging where she left him, accompanied by Katoh and one of Lavellan’s companions. Katoh lifts an eyebrow as Vaati approaches. “Does Andraste get you that angry? You look ready to kill.” A ghost of a smile tugs at her lips as she cocks her head. “Have you met Sera? One of Fynn’s people.”

 

“Now, now,” Kaariss raises his head briefly to allow Vaati to sit before settling back down onto her thigh. “Vaati’s just in a _mood_ because the Commander doesn’t want to play nice.”

 

Sera’s ears perk up, her wide-grin widening. “Cully Wully? He’s what’s got you all riled up?” She shakes her head. “He’s a strange one, yeah? A few minutes around Leliana and you realize that maybe he’s not the golden boy of the almighty Inquisition after all.” She shakes her head. “But Templars are always a bit whacked, innit? Magic’s a trip alright, but you can’t spend all that time thinking about it.”

 

“It’s fine, it’s fine.” Vaati sighs deeply, dragging her nails along her scalp in an attempt to soothe her nerves. But things are not fine, and Taarlok’s latest package from the road is doing nothing to quell the fire burning inside of her brain.

 

_Rendezvous._ The word shining brilliantly behind her tightly closed eyes. _Benefactor wants to meet. Details to follow._

 

Vaati leans back, listening to Katoh regale Sera with stories from jobs gone wrong and heists gone right. There would be time to think things through in the morning.


	7. Of Masks and Deception

He is road-weary and tired-eyed, his thoughts coming in frantic bursts in between pulses from his throbbing head. What a mess they had gotten themselves into. The Wardens corrupted, Hawke lost in the Fade, and Samson’s Tranquil lying dead in the Shrine. Cullen presses the heels of his palms against his eyes, sinking his weight lower and lower onto his elbows until he is half-bent over the desk.

 

_They return to Skyhold from Adamant under the pall of Hawke’s obvious absence. He nods at Alistair grimly as the Warden follows the Inquisitor to the war room. Cullen heads out of the foyer, out into the gardens where he knows she’ll be. Things had been rather strained with Vaati following their prayer-room confessional, but he doesn’t care. He is exhausted from the siege, exhausted from living through this never-ending nightmare._

_He finds her in her usual spot, a bench wedged between two of the Inquisitor’s more treasured plants. She is curled on her side, one arm tucked under her head, the other clutching that damned notebook to her chest. Cullen feels a surge of both affection and curiosity. He walks towards her, steps quiet, hand outstretched with the book as his goal. But, as though sensing his mal-intent, she stirs and opens her eyes, blinking in the sight of him._

_For a moment he expects an argument, or at least a cold look. But instead, Vaati scratches her head and sits up, her eyes flooded with sympathy. “I heard what happened to the Champion.” She shakes her head, stray wavy strands of her hair bouncing gently. “Lost in the Fade, potentially forever,” she rubs her lower lip. “Fynn must be a wreck, I know how she felt about her.”_

_“You’re on first name terms with the Inquisitor?” He asks, his eyebrows lifting in surprise._

_She smothers the dark look threatening to surface and changes the subject. “How are you holding up? I know you were familiar with the Champion from your time in Kirkwall. This can’t be easy.”_

_For a moment he almost shrugs. Hawke’s loss – as heroic as the story was – was by no means a personal blow. He had always found her incredibly trying. Her insurgency in Kirkwall had made his duties more difficult than they had needed to be, and her arrival at Skyhold had been nothing but a nuisance. But the sound of Vaati’s warm voice, dripping with sympathy, the warmth of her thigh against his as she scoots closer. He twists his face into the most pained expression he can muster, his hands curling in his lap. “One of the harder things I’ve had to deal with in,” he gestures, “all of this.”_

_She takes his hand in hers, the heat seeping through the thick leather of his glove and rushing straight to his cheeks. “I’m sorry, Cullen. I truly am.” She cocks her head. “If you want to talk about it, please, don’t hesitate.”_

And talk he had. Working his way back into her good graces had been one of the more difficult things he had been forced to do. Between making the preparations to travel to the Shrine of Dumat, meeting with Josephine about the ball in Halamshiral, and regaining Vaati’s affections, he had run himself down almost to the bone. Cullen sighs heavily, the stars dancing behind his clenched eyes. Yet all of that work had failed to place Samson in their custody. He had stayed crouched by the tranquil’s side for hours after he had died, his face an emotionless mask. The Inquisitor had ordered the party to give him space, assuming that his catatonia had been brought on by grief. But it was fury that had shut him down, fury that coursed through his veins at the thought of Samson escaping his clutches once more. Fury at the mere _idea_ that he had been bested. It was all he could do – crouch there shaking silently with rage – to keep himself from ringing the dead boy’s neck, from pummeling the corpse to a pulp for allowing that snake to evade them once more.

 

“Cullen.”

 

His head snaps up at the sound of her voice, gentle, floating in from the doorway. She is shrouded in the heavy cloak she had worn on their first meeting, heavy pack thrown over her shoulder. Bile rises in his throat as he jumps to his feet. “What? Where are you going?”

 

“I know you’ve only just returned, but this can’t wait.” She sighs heavily. “One of our agents – Taarlok – is out handling our non-Inquisition contracts, and they need me to come out and meet them. I was hoping that things would be settled without my presence, but it’s been made clear to me that I need to join them.” At the sight of his surprised stare, she holds up a hand. “It’s only temporary. I should only be gone for a few weeks, no longer.”

 

“A,” he frowns. “A few weeks? But what about the Winter Palace?” He feels as though he has just been rejected at his first ball. “I thought you would accompany us to Halamshiral.” He forces a smile, “Experience some Orlesian extravagance for an evening.”

 

To his delight, a look of genuine disappointment crosses her face. “Yes, Josie filled me in on the details. It sounds like a ball,” she chuckles to herself, “but I’m not entirely sure that I’ll be back.”

 

Cullen feels his patience wearing thin, his thoughts of romantic gestures slipping away almost as quickly as they had formed. And what, for the sake of –  “What business does your – Taarlok, was it? What business does Taarlok need you to take care of?” He strides over to his desk, pulling out rosters of traveling soldiers. “I can send some of our men in your place. To meet them on your behalf.”

 

“No!” Her objection is loud, the uncharacteristic sharpness of her tone scraping roughly against his ears. She fidgets uncomfortably when he lifts a brow. “I just – it’s Valo Kas business, Cullen. I don’t want Inquisition forces interfering.”

 

His mouth sets him a tight line, his fists curling into even tighter balls on the surface of the desk. “Fine,” he says curtly. “Do you need me to escort you to the gates?” He knows he’s being unreasonable, childish even. But he doesn’t care.  

 

He expects her to storm off, to leave him to wallow in his own disappointment alone. Instead, Vaati walks up behind the desk, planting herself in front of him defiantly. Cullen shrinks, his anger replaced by, what, fear? Despite being just a touch taller, the top of his head barely scrapes the golden tips of her horns. A fact that had never ceased to make him feel like a Dwarf in comparison.

 

“Don’t do that.” She says sternly, catching him by surprise by holding his chin. “If you’re upset that I’m leaving, tell me that you’re upset. Don’t throw a fit by yourself once I cross the gates.” Her dark gray eyebrows knit together. “Would I rather watch Fynn navigate a room of nobles and thwart an assassination? Absolutely. But I have my duties, Cullen. Just as you have yours.” She snatches her hand back, her thumbnail scratching along his jaw. “There are people relying on me.”

 

He feels the shame spread from his stomach to his chest until it seeps out of every pore on his body. _Why is it_ , he thinks bitterly. _Why is it that I am always on the receiving end of a lecture? Why am I the one pushed to the edge of reason?_

 

“May I kiss you?”

 

The question leaves his mouth before he can think, and he and Vaati stare at each other in wide-eyed surprise as though neither one of them can understand just what he’s said. Cullen shakes his head. “I, I’m sorry, I don’t know what came over me. I just – you’re always trying to ground me, I just,” he rubs the back of his neck, his cheeks positively glowing. “Maker’s breath,” he mutters, his gaze planted firmly on his boots.

 

Stare planted on the floor, he sees her feet step slowly into view, her hands once again on the sides of his face. She kisses his cheek – softly, chastely – as though she has done it a thousand times before. “Now me,” she says, tapping her cheekbone with her index finger. When he only sputters in return, she rolls her eyes. “Cullen, I am on a schedule, you know, and this is taking much longer than expected.”

 

“Right, right,” he feels himself smile as he leans forward to press his lips against her cheek. A shiver runs through him, the disappointment plain on his face when she draws away. Reaching for her hand, he strokes the inside of her wrist. “Please be careful,” he says softly.

 

She shoots him a grin, shrugging her pack higher up on her shoulder. “I always am. Have fun in Orlais. Get in plenty of dancing for me.” Shooting him one last grin, she leaves the room, shutting the door softly behind her.

 

Cullen sinks back into his chair, his fingertips hovering above his lips. Though it was only for a moment, and only her cheek, he swears that he could taste the sparks.


	8. On the Road

“You look tired, Kadan.” Taarlok’s face is flooded with worry, their hand a familiar comfort against her cheek. “We can wait another day to head out. So you can take a moment’s rest.”

 

Vaati closes her eyes, settling into them wearily. “I’ve kept the benefactor waiting long enough. I don’t want this to affect the company.”

 

“Sod on the benefactor,” Ashaad grunts, banging a fist on the tabletop. “Look at you, look at the dark circles under your eyes.” He waves a hand dismissively at Taarlok’s suggestions to lower his voice. “No, Kadan, just take one look at her. It’s being there with that Templar bastard.” He clenches his jaw. “I told Shokrakar that you should’ve been travelling with us. That you were too anxious about being there.”

 

Taarlok grasps his hand. “Breathe, Ashaad,” they murmur. “You know that you can’t afford to get worked up. You’re going to put yourself in a coma.” They wait until Ashaad takes a few calming breaths before turning back to Vaati. “But I’m inclined to agree. Kaariss sent word about what happened, something about a fight.” They roll their eyes, an affectionate smile tipping up the corner of their mouth. “Granted, the way he wrote it made it sound like an epic saga, rather than a sparring bout gone wrong, but he mentioned that you were very upset by the whole thing.”

 

Vaati wrings her hands together, her mind still on what happened before she had even gotten past Skyhold’s gates.

 

_“May I kiss you?”_

Why had he asked? Why had he been so inclined to kiss her when just moments before he was looking at with those eyes? Those eyes that made her feel small, shrinking, _disgusting_. Those eyes that betrayed his stuttering laugh and clumsy lips, that told her that he hated her more than words could describe, even if he didn’t know it himself. It is only when Taarlok pulls her into their chest, cooing softly and stroking her hair that Vaati realizes that she is crying.

 

“I don’t know what to do anymore.” She mumbles, clinging to them with shaky hands. “I thought I knew what I was doing, but I just want to go home.”

 

She misses her mother, misses the feeling of her battle-hardened fingers combing gently through her hair while her father hums lullabies and pours them all warm cups of honeyed-tea. She misses her garden, misses threading flowers through her hair while she dips her feet in the small brook behind the house. Taarlok is warm and smells of incense, and for a moment Vaati allows herself to shut her eyes and slip away.

 

“Hey,” they murmur against the tip of her ear, “you know what’s going to make you feel better?” When Vaati only sniffles in response, they try again. “Come on, Kadan, Ashaad has something that we’re sure is going to make everything better.”

 

Vaati looks up in time to see the beaded curtains separating the two rooms of their small shared cabin part, Ashaad emerging with a squirming bundle in his arms. “I,” her mouth hangs open as he hands it to her gently, an unfamiliar softness overtaking his face. “Taarlok, is this,” she stares down at the baby in disbelief, eyes sweeping over its chubby cheeks and tiny, budding horns.

 

“Her name is Meraad,” they say softly, stroking their daughter’s cheek. “She’s named for her aunt. Aren’t you, Kadan.”

 

She stirs at the sound of her mother’s voice, a sleepy smile on her face.

 

“But when?” Vaati asks, her excitement barely contained, her woes forgotten. “When did you – with who?”

 

“Ashaad is the father, unfortunately.” Taarlok replies teasingly, placing a kiss on his hand when it comes down on their shoulder.

 

He grins, one gold tooth glinting in the light. “That’s right. Why do you think I offered to come all the way out here?” He nuzzles against the side of her head. “I had to protect what’s important, after all.”

 

Vaati cradles the child in her arms, watching Taarlok and Ashaad stare at each other adoringly. The dull ache in her chest recedes, throbbing just a little weaker as she sees a mirrored image of her own family life. She thinks of Cullen, of his hateful eyes and gentle touch. The fog in her mind growing, she presses a kiss to the baby’s forehead. She might not know what she needs to do, but she knows where she must start.


	9. The Benefactor

Ashaad takes her as far as the path leading to the ruin, his jaw clenching and unclenching as he stares at the crumbling pillars in front of them. “I can come with you, Kadan. I don’t care what the letter said, I’ll –”

 

“No, Ashaad, I don’t want to make them angry.” She thinks back to the letter Taarlok had tucked into her pocket before they had left the cabin. “They have a lot of information about us, and I don’t want it to get into the wrong hands.” She places a hand on his arm, squeezing lightly. “Go back to Taarlok, I can find my way back once I’ve finished here.” Ashaad opens his mouth to argue, but she shakes her head. “That’s not a question, Kadan. Protect what’s really important, remember?”

 

He pulls her in for a bear-hug, pressing a kiss into the top of her head. “Don’t be brave if things go wrong, you hear me? Knock ‘em on their ass and get out of there.”

 

She nods, waiting for him to reluctantly let go of her and make his way back the way they came. Once his hulking figure is out of sight, she takes a deep breath and crosses the threshold. For an abandoned Tevinter shrine, the blood stains on the walls in the courtyard look unnervingly fresh. She feels a chill, as though there are eyes in the walls around her tracking her every move. Her fingers curl around her staff, the fear sending the magic pulsing through her veins as she pushes through the heavy iron door and into the inside of the shrine.

 

 _More blood_ , she thinks, her eyes bouncing from splatter to splatter until her head begins to spin. _What kind of place is this for a rendezvous?_

 

She is so caught up in her perturbation that she feels her foot miss the step in front of her. However, as she is about to fall, a hand grabs the back of her cloak, roughly jerking her back up onto the landing. “Careful there, love. Wouldn’t want you to crack your skull before we get down to business.”

 

Vaati’s head whips up, half-expecting to see Ashaad hovering over her. But it isn’t Ashaad, or even another Qunari. Instead, she finds herself staring into a pair of red-rimmed eyes set deeply into a pale face. She freezes, unable to snatch herself out of his grip. “I’m sorry, are you,” her brain is foggy, clouded by _something_. “Are you the man who’s been sending us that information?”

 

“Name’s Samson,” he says gruffly. “You’re one of the ox-men who’s been looking into my little side-project, are you?” He lets her go, setting down the steps and deeper into the shrine. “Haven’t seen much of your lot since Kirkwall. Not that I was looking anyway.” He shoots a look over his shoulder, frowning when he sees that she hasn’t bothered to follow him. “This way, I don’t bite.” A predatory smile splits his mouth and lights up his eyes. “Not unless you ask, of course.”

 

 _Samson,_ she opens her mouth. _Cullen was looking for a Samson. Corypheus’s general, but,_ she swallows hard, following him to a small, makeshift office tucked into an alcove. _Could this be him? The armor, the clue is in the –_

“You’ll have to excuse the mess, love.” He says, gesturing vaguely around the space. “I’ve had a little bit of an incident with my base of operations, you see. Things got a little messy.” Samson glances at her, following her stare to what looks like an urn on the desk. “Maddox,” he says gravely, causing her to jump. “One of my best, he was. Couldn’t bear the thought of him out here alone.”

 

Her mouth is dry, her skin crawling unpleasantly. The glowing crystal in the center of his chest is the only clue she needs. _Red lyrium, that’s red lyrium. I’ve got to_ –

 

“Here,” he’s pushing something into her hands. “This is the last of it. Too valuable to send by messenger.” He leans against the desk, folding his arms across his chest. “It’s mostly letters, some journal entries, all anonymous. I wasn’t able to –”

 

“Is this for Corypheus?” She blurts out, her fingers tightening on the package. Vaati curses herself, flinching before he can respond. _Idiot, why would you say it like that? He’s going to kill you. He’s going to_ –

 

“This has nothing to do with my master.” He replies. She looks at him, and he shrugs, almost as though he’s growing bored with the conversation. “This is for me. Something outside of His plan. I do my duties, and He allows me to use my men as I see fit.” At the sight of her shocked expression, he laughs. A harsh, barking sound – as though he isn’t used to doing it in the company of others. “Don’t give me that look, love. I know where you’ve been. Helping the almighty Inquisition with its divine quest to save the world.” He snorts. “Don’t worry, you’ll be leaving here alive. My business with your men isn’t about the Inquisition.”

 

“I just don’t understand why Cullen though.” She says, despite the fact that she can very well see where he’s coming from.

 

Samson lifts an eyebrow. “You’ve read through all of that and don’t understand?” When she sputters in response, he chuckles. “I’m sure you’ve heard a great deal about me from him.” His smile is mirthless, a jagged slash across his mouth. “The lyrium addict. Kirkwall’s disgrace and Corypheus’s slave. But it only ends there, love.” With one swift motion he stands in front of her, catching her chin between his fingers. “Why don’t I tell you where the story starts.”


	10. A Monstrosity, Revered

Vaati stands stiffly in front of him, her shoulders tense and her hands wrapped tightly around her staff. She finds him terrifying. More terrifying than any man or beast that she had ever encountered. It’s no one aspect of his being that causes her heart to pick up speed when she dares to focus on his eyes. He is not particularly large, and she can’t imagine that he is much taller than Cullen (though, he carries a bit more weight than the Inquisition’s commander). Even the way he stands is not particularly threatening. His arms splayed, hands in plain sight and away from his weapon, body relaxed. If anything he is leaving himself open for an attack. _Perhaps it’s the eyes_ , she thinks, her own darting up to meet his stare before settling back on his upturned lips. When Cullen looked at her, she could feel the contempt radiating off of him like heat from an open flame. But Samson’s eyes made her feel like a puzzle simply waiting to be completed, as though he both knew _and_ understood the contradictions twisting at her heart. 

 

She waits for him to make himself comfortable. Despite the cavernous interior of the shrine, he seems to fill the space, his body casting monstrous shadows on the walls around them. She chalks it up to the jewel lodged in his armor, glittering knowingly at her in the dim light of the shrine. The corrupted lyrium sends her skin crawling, her blood singing in unfamiliar tongues inside of her veins.

 

Samson leans back casually against his desk, lifting one hand to pick lazily at his teeth. “Let’s start with this – what stories has your golden boy been feeding you about me?”

 

Her mind flits between the shrine and Skyhold. Cullen’s voice tense, his eyes harder than she had ever seen as he spins tales of an addict gone rogue, a man desperate enough to sell his soul to the Blight itself if it meant finding a way to get his fix. She remembers being frightened then, frightened by what desperation and hunger could do to a person. She remembers asking herself how an organization could abuse not only the mages under its heel, but also the people in its rank.

 

But it hadn’t been the stories alone that had caused the chill to seep in. It had been the gentle lilt of Cullen’s voice, the way his purring tone didn’t match the grisliness of his words. _“It won’t be enough to simply find him.”_ He had said, his eyes shining dangerously, his cheeks flushed with wine. _“Samson must be tracked down, weakened, and destroyed.”_ He had laughed then too, a rough sound that had echoed hauntingly in her mind for days after. _“And I’m going to be the man to do it.”_ His voice had rung with a dark sort of determination. One that took his boyishly-handsome face and twisted it into something unrecognizable and frightening.

 

“I,” she wants to deny everything. She wants to confess everything. She wants to erase herself from the mess completely, hiding somewhere far away from this deception putting herself in between two wolves eager to tear out each other’s throats. Her head throbs, her knees wobble, and for a moment she considers using the staff to holder herself up. “Nothing, I haven’t been told anything.”

 

He laughs, the harsh bark softened by his playful tone. “Come on, love, no use playing stupid now. You can trust me. After all we’ve been through.”

 

For a moment she feels her defenses slipping, the tense magic in her blood slipping away like rainwater. And that moment is all it takes for her to unload, spilling everything about what they had talked about that night. She talks until she has nothing more to give, her tongue weary and her body feeling light with confession. Neither of them says a word, and it is in this silence that Vaati allows herself to lift her gaze from the stone at his feet to glance briefly at his face.

 

He grins widely, his eyes glinting with something that looks an awful lot like pride. “As I thought,” he mutters, running his tongue across his teeth. “How easy it is to hide behind Kinloch, hide behind Knight-Captain, hide behind Commander. The titles make it so easy.” He chuckles darkly. “Did he tell you why I was expelled from the Order?”

 

Her mouth is dry, and she croaks out a feeble, “No.” How could she have let this happen, how could she have broken so easily? If Samson didn’t kill her, then Cullen surely would. He would find away to take that hardened, angry look – the look he gave her when he didn’t think she was watching, the look that betrayed his gentle stammers and blushing cheeks and told her that there was an anger lurking beneath his awkward charm. An anger that was waiting for her to slip, waiting for an excuse to make its strike.

 

Samson regards her silently for a moment, his eyes sweeping over her face as though probing at her innermost thoughts. “Aye,” he says softly, his face setting into something grim. “The look on your face tells me all I need to know, love.” He advances towards her. “That wide-eyed stare, the nug caught between two hunters. You learn to expect that look in the Gallows, you know. That’s how they look at you. The mages,” his voice is a thought-halting purr in her ears, and her breath hitches in her throat. Her knees feel weak, but she no longer suspects it’s out of fear. She wants to cave into him, to see if she feels as small tucked against his chest as she does now standing in front of him. It’s like electricity, a spark running along every single nerve in her body as his chest brushes up against hers. He lifts his hand, lips threatening to graze her cheek. “Though, you would know all about that, now wouldn’t you.” He finishes simply, tapping the glowing crystal atop her staff before sauntering away.

 

Her face burns, her heart threatening to beat out of her chest. “So it was something awful,” she says. Stomping her foot impatiently, she puts on the best glare she can muster. “Enough toying, just tell me what you did.” Vaati wills her skin to cool, wills her pulse to slow. _Why is he playing around as though we have nothing better to do?_ She shakes her head slightly. _Why am I allowing him to?_

 

“So you’ve some fire in you yet,” he chuckles, evidently unfinished with his games. He resumes his seat on the desk, folding his arms across his chest. “It was something awful.” He says gravely. “Awful in the eyes of loyal Templars like your Commander, awful in the eyes of Meredith,” a look of disgust crosses his face, the name falling of his tongue soaked in venom.

 

Her fear is slowly ebbed away by a growing impatience. “Just spit it out, Samson.” She says wearily, hugging the staff for support.

 

“Love letters.”

 

Vaati frowns, knowing that she must’ve heard him wrong. “Excuse me?” She asks, squinting at him in confusion.

 

He places a hand on the urn, his eyes looking off wistfully. “Maddox here was in Kirkwall, being held in the Gallows with the rest of the mages.” He rubs a hand over his face. “You don’t know what it was like. Before the chantry, before the conclave, the way we kept them. Imprisoned like animals.” He shakes his head. “But Maddox was one of the good ones. Never complained, never spoke out of turn. He kept his head down and did what he was told. The only rule he ever broke was falling in love with her.”

 

For a moment Vaati thinks he looks terribly sad, his face looking more drawn and his eyes more bloodshot. Sighing heavily, he continues. “Meredith had rules, of course. Rules against ‘fraternization,’ rules to keep the potential for rebellion low.”

 

“She kept them apart.” She breathes out, not thinking to stop herself.

 

“She kept them _all_ apart.” He replies darkly. “But Maddox was one of the good ones. I didn’t see the harm in it. In any of it.”

 

“You,” Vaati frowns deeply as she pieces things together. “You were passing their letters back and forth. They were exchanging love letters and you, you were helping them?”

 

He clicks his tongue. “A heinous crime by any standard, I know.” Seeing the confusion still etched on her face, he shrugs. “I didn’t stay in the Order for the power trip, love. The Order thrives on breeding addicts, hooking us on dwarf-dust and holding it as collateral for our full cooperation.” He snorts derisively. “Giving me the boot was the hardest thing those bastards had to do. A lyrium addict on the streets of Kirkwall, disgraced Templar accused of helping apostates – the rumors practically started themselves. But I watched,” the glint returns to his eyes, igniting a wild fire within them that sends not-unpleasant shivers running up her legs. “I watched what they did in Kirkwall. When the Champion was running through the rogue Templars, I was the one fighting at her side. I was there when Meredith finally snapped.”

 

“So then why?”

 

For the first time since arriving, she is able to meet his eyes and stay there. The question echoes in the empty hall, bouncing off the walls around them as they stare each other down. Finally, Samson cocks his head. “Why what, love?”

 

“Why this,” she gestures wildly. “Why are you selling your soul to a Tevinter magister? Why are you hiding out in the ruins with a mage’s ashes? Why aren’t you fighting to make things right?” She feels the irritation bubbling up inside of her as she pictures Cullen’s cold, assessing eyes following her every move. “Is it another Order tradition?” She asks bitterly. “To sulk around not changing the problems staring you in the face?” But as quickly as she forgets herself, Vaati remembers where she is, remembers _who_ she is with. She isn’t sparring with Cullen in the courtyard. She is talking down the right hand of the Blight itself. _But why do I feel so brazen? Why am I not afraid?_

 

Samson wears a strange smile on his face, equally-mirthful yet somehow colder. “I am rebuilding.” He replies, the smile frozen on his face. “This right here, this is fighting.” He pauses, as though he is carefully considering what is coming next. “When I was _relieved_ of my Templar duties, I made it a point not to set foot in the Gallows. Told myself it was out of necessity. No duties to perform, no need to be there. When I joined the Champion in her fight against Meredith, it was the first time I can remember why I really stayed away.” The smile is gone from his face, replaced by an expression Vaati can’t read. He seems to be speaking to himself more than anyone, his stare far away. “After Meredith was slain we went to check on the remaining mages, round them up to see who had made it out alive. People were afraid. I heard after what had happened to Orsino. The First Enchanter was all they had. The only ones left mostly unscathed were the Tranquil.”

 

His hand strays again to the urn, and Vaati feels her stomach twist into knots. “I should’ve known they would take it away from him,” he mutters. “The Order takes more than it gives. Strips you of your agency and gives you a hunger that can never be filled. After Kirkwall, I thought I would change that. Protect my men the way they deserved,” another bitter laugh that sends her heart racing. “I know the price I’ve paid, but I would pour out my blood to see Kirkwall be the last of the Chantry’s crimes. To see my men taken care of.”

 

 _Where is the monster?_ She asks herself. _Where is the man driven mad by lyrium and greed?_ “Why,” she feels the tears pooling in her eyes, her heart constricting in her chest. The question falls from her lips again, though what she means she doesn’t know. Nothing is as it seems, the lines between right and wrong blurring into indecipherable shapes before her very eyes. Vaati is overwhelmed, her knees finally giving up in a physical representation of her collapsing mind.

 

“Careful, love,” Samson catches her easily, as though plucking a paper bird out of the air. He steadies her against his chest, using his calloused thumb to brush the tears from her face. “I still have use for you yet.”

 

She can feel the heat radiating from the tainted lyrium, the warmth causing the bile to rise up in her chest. But her knees shake under her, her spirit too weak for her to draw away from his cursed touch. “I can’t help.” She mumbles. “ I don’t know how to help you.” She doesn’t know what she’s saying, the thoughts becoming even more clouded as he sets her up straight.

 

He is the most frightening thing that she has ever seen because she can no longer find a reason to be afraid. “Just keep up the good work,” he says, his hand settling on the package tucked away on her hip. When she opens her mouth to interject, a myriad of disastrous possibilities on the tip of her tongue, his arm snakes around her waist and jerks her forward.

 

The kiss is deep, his stubble chaffing her skin as he pulls her impossibly closer, his hand a fist tangled in her hair. She feels as though the life has been sucked out of her as he pulls back, nipping at her lower lip gently as he does. “I always look out for my men, love.” He murmurs throatily, giving her one rough pat on the cheek before drawing back completely.

 

Vaati stands there dumbly long after he’s gone, her fingers pressed against her parted lips, corruption singing sweetly in her veins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't think I've plugged my tumblr here yet, but you can find me @ corypheus-crystal-dick. Along with general shitposting, i post updates/ideas about the fic (and am always eager to chat about anything - whether you have ocs of your own or just want to argue about cullen).


	11. Chances

The weeks after the Winter Palace are a blur. Between Hawke being spat from the Fade, Celene’s apostate advisor being thrust upon them, and the Inquisitor’s generally _unfocused_ pattern of sweeping the continent, Cullen barely has time to think of Vaati, let alone actually search for her. If he was being quite honest, he had spent his time at the Winter Palace in two minds. The first was the mind of a soldier, his attention on securing the Orlesian throne with as little disruption as possible. The second was one of – of what, of a jealous lover? Of a paranoid fool thinking of a woman who was not even his to worry over? Regardless, he had spent the night watching the celebrations from afar. Nursing a glass of punch and staring out into the vast properties surrounding the palace, he had wondered where she was. Wondered who she was with, and what she was doing. He had foolishly held on to the glimmering hope that she would arrive in the last moments of the ball, draped silks that would yield easily under his hands.

 

But when they had been awoken in the dead of night with news of Hawke’s resurgence in the Approach, Cullen knew that it was a foolish thing to hope for. _A Qunari at the palace,_ he had thought, shaking his head as the glass clinked lightly against his teeth. _Perish the thought._

 

She had arrived sometime after their return from Halamshiral, slinking off to the company’s shared quarters until the Inquisitor had summoned her to join the healing team. Cullen had almost been grateful. Healing Hawke had been an around-the-clock job. Her absence had given him time to think, time to rid himself of the jealousy and paranoia accumulated at the Winter Palace, time to shape himself into someone trusting and relaxed.

 

The door to Hawke’s room opens and he straightens as Vaati pushes through it, her eyes tired as she attempts to re-tie the bun atop her head. His heart pounds at the sight of her, his hands sweating under the oppressive heat of his gloves. “Vaati,” he says as she is about to pass by him.

 

She jolts at the sound of his voice, her eyes flicking over to him wildly. “Cullen,” she blinks, “I didn’t see you there.” When he comments on her obvious exhaustion, she exhales deeply. “It’s been nonstop since I got back. But the Champion needed me, and I wasn’t going to let her die.”

 

“How is Hawke?” He asks, more out of politeness than genuine concern. He is eager to push through the formalities as soon as possible.

 

“She’s got a long road ahead of her, but it looks like we took care of the worst of it. Fynn and the Grand Enchanter are monitoring her. My work for the time being is finished.” She glances at him, her shy smile sending a flutter through his stomach. “How was the ball? I heard that you received a fair number of proposals.”

 

His mouth sets in a thin line. “I was also groped a fair number of times, so it’s safe to say I will do my best to _avoid_ any similar events.” When she echoes his disgust, he smiles, an attempt to quell his pounding heart. “But you should try to get some rest,” he says, braving to reach out and stroke her cheek lightly. “You’ve been running yourself into the ground. I could make you some tea, and you could come back to my office. Maybe have a bit of a lie down?”

 

He cannot read the look she gives him, and he isn’t sure whether he’s overstepped. But to his relief she nods gently and follows him through the corridors and up to his cluttered workspace. “I’m terribly sorry for the mess,” he says as he clears off the small chaise pushed between two bookshelves. Leliana had all but forced it on him after finding him asleep under his desk one early morning, and for the first time since its arrival he feels truly grateful for it. “With all that’s been going on, I haven’t exactly been left with much time to tidy up.”

 

“It’s fine, Cullen.” She says, nudging him softly out of the way as she settles down into the cushions. “This is perfect. Much more comfortable than sleeping outside of the Champion’s room between shifts,” her eyelids droop, her breaths coming in steady streams from her nostrils.

 

He stares at her, watching her chest as it rises and falls. “Would you like me to rub your head?” He asks suddenly, flushing when she opens her eyes in confusion. “I mean, to help you sleep. I remember when we would have trouble sleeping when I was younger, my mother would always stroke my hair until I could finally fall asleep.”

 

Vaati stares up at him, her expression still masked by that unreadable look. It makes him sick, makes his stomach churn. It feels as though he’s being judged, as though every motion, every thought, is being assessed. Finally, she speaks. “Why did you ask to kiss me?” The question is softer than he has ever heard her speak. “Before I left Skyhold, why did you want to kiss me?”

 

Cullen had asked himself the same question the following night, and every subsequent moment after that. He had never been articulate when it came to matters of the heart. The thought of a gentle caress and mutual infatuation was enough to make his throat swell, his tongue thick inside of his mouth. After Kinloch and destroying the one desire he held dear, he had attempted to seal himself off from such foolish, impossible thoughts. And then she had arrived. Arrived in a monstrous shape, all thick limbs and curling horns. She had arrived a beastly presence wielding a glowing staff. Arrived outside of all of his expectations.

 

He swallows hard, coming to the realization that he’s neglected to actually answer her question. “You are unexpected.” The words leave his mouth before he can think. He blinks, sinking down onto the floor in front of the chaise. “I never thought I’d find anything but chaos here. Anything but the end of the world. But you,” he frowns, the implication of what he is about to say wreaking havoc in his mind. “I never expected to feel this way for someone like you.”

 

“Someone like me?” She asks flatly. “You mean a mage, or perhaps a ‘wicked ox-man.’”

 

“N-no!” Cullen shakes his head wildly, running his hand through his hair in exasperation. “Maker’s breath, I didn’t mean it that way.” Scratching his cheek, he reddens. “Well, I didn’t mean it as negatively as you put it.” He looks at her, his voice taking on an almost pleading tone. For a moment he is unpleasantly reminded of their argument in the altar, the angry tears in her eyes illuminated by the shrine’s candles. “You’ve got to understand where I’m coming from, Vaati. I was raised in the Order. Was raised to distrust mages and magic. I saw what happened at Kinloch. I saw what the Qunari did in Kirkwall. I saw what the mage rebellion did to the Chantry.” He rubs his temple. “I look at you and it just –”

 

“I wasn’t at Kirkwall, Cullen.” She rolls on her side, propping her chin up on her hand. “I wasn’t at Kirkwall, and I wasn’t at the Circle.” He opens his mouth to defend himself, but she cuts him off. “I wasn’t there, Cullen. I wasn’t there, and I’m not going to pretend feel guilty for being born the way I was.”

 

“I’m not asking you to,” he replies, clinging desperately to her hand. “I’m not – it’s not coming out right. I’m trying to say,” the word looms on his tongue, his heart hammering in his ears. “I want to learn to love you for who you are.”

 

He fears she’ll snatch her hand back and storm away from the office. He hopes his heartfelt words will move her to leap into his embrace, her lips soft against his own. But with all of his fears and hopes, he does not expect her weary look as she rises from the sofa, crouching down in front of him. “You shouldn’t have to learn to love someone, Cullen.” She says, her hand coming up to cup his cheek. “It shouldn’t have to be this difficult.”

 

She stands to leave, leaving him speechless and sitting on the floor. He wants to tell her that he doesn’t mean it that way, wants to tell her that he hasn’t felt these feelings in almost a decade. He wants to confess his fears, confess his sins, to worship at her feet and pray for atonement. But he can’t move, he can’t speak, he can only watch as she hovers in the doorway.

 

“I hope you find whatever it is you’re looking for, Cullen.” She says, the pity in her tone almost palpable.

 

He stares at the empty doorway long after she’s gone, his heart a cold mass in his chest.


	12. Open Your Eyes

After the Shrine of Dumat it is almost as though her thoughts have cleared, like waking up from a long and treacherous sleep. Following the grave revelation of Cullen’s conflicted heart, she spends less time perched out on the wall overlooking the training field. It had been growing too cold – and she too weary – to endure the chill for the sake of one stubborn, misguided Templar. Instead, she had taken to joining the rest of the company in the warmth of the Herald’s Rest, swapping mercenary tales with the Iron Bull’s Chargers.

 

The Qunari in question leans forward, good eye twinkling at her with drink and laughter. “Kaariss tells me you’re Vashoth. Says you’re one of the few of theirs to be completely separated from the Qun.”

 

“My parents are Tal-Vashoth,” she replies, tapping her fingertips idly against the mug in her hands. “They left Seheron before I was born.” Vaati’s mind drifts to their home in the Free Marches, her head filled with her mother’s stories of tea and incense. “I think they miss it sometimes, it was their home for so long. But they had to get out if they were going to be together.” She stares down into the surface of her ale, smile tugging at her lips. “It was a risk, but they didn’t care.”

 

The Iron Bull snorts, taking a long pull from his pint. “They’re just lucky the re-educators didn’t catch them beforehand.” He lifts a brow, “I’m assuming they knew how quickly the Ben-Hassrath could’ve ended things for them.”

 

Shokrakar laughs, drawing the Bull’s attention. She shares a knowing look with Kaariss, a cat-like smile spreading over her face. “Why don’t you tell him the story, Kadan?” She turns her grin to the Bull, eyes glinting. “I know how much faith you’ve put into the Ben-Hassrath. I think you’ll enjoy hearing just how _effective_ they were.” Gesturing to Vaati, she flicks her wrist, “Go on.”

 

“Well,” Vaati crosses one leg over the other. “My parents were faithful servants to the Qun. Papa was deemed unfit to serve in any type of military capacity. He was frail and sickly as a child, better suited for picking flowers than converting _basra_.”

 

She thinks of her father, his hands gentle and feather-light on top of hers as they tended to the garden. _“The vandal aria, the closest thing we have to the Silent Plains Rose. They say that the Rose is practically extinct, rarer than anything in this world.”_ His eyes would twinkle, his head lifting slightly to smile up at her mother watching quietly from the doorway. _“But I’ve found my own ambrosia.”_

“Mummy, on the other hand, she was something to be feared. A force of nature devoted completely and utterly to the order of the Qun. Powerful, deadly, _beautiful._ They called her Gatt, fiery and explosive like _gaatlok_ itself. She was strength incarnate, and everyone knew it. She was brute force rolled into a pair of gold-tipped horns, right until she saw that wispy, gentle man arranging flowers in the marketplace.” She sighs dreamily. “It was love at first sight, and they knew they’d risk anything to be together.”

 

“Wait a minute, wait a minute,” Bull holds up his hand, leaning forward to peer closer at her. “Are you telling me that your mother was _the_ Gatt who threw her career away for some flower boy? Because if we’re talking about the same Gatt, she would’ve been one of the Ben-Hassrath’s best. One of the most frightening enforcers Seheron had ever seen. A woman who lived for knocking skulls and obeying orders.” He stares at her. “You’re saying she’s your mother?”

 

Vaati nods, “That’s Mummy alright. Papa said that she cried when she found out she was pregnant. That she was afraid that she was too rough to have a baby. _‘I’m not a tamassran, Asaara. I don’t know how to be tender!’_ ” She laughs, “Papa says that she cried from that day up through the first year after I was born. But eventually she got the hang of it.”

 

“They really did something good by getting out when they did.” Kaariss says, pinching her cheek affectionately. “Any later and we might’ve missed out on this big softy.” He sighs heavily. “Say what you will about this Elder One, but he’s certainly bringing people together. For example, I had the most interesting conversation with that Tevinter mage, Dorian, in the library –”

 

“You and your Tevinter mage,” Katoh cuts him off. “You’ve kept us awake soliloquizing all night about your Tevinter mage. We know all about your Tevinter mage”

 

He stares at her pointedly. “Oh? And how is that any different than you barging into our quarters gushing about your little Elven pet?”

 

“She’s not an ‘Elven pet,’ her name is Sera!”

 

As they bicker, Vaati feels a hand come down on her shoulder, and she glances up to see Cullen standing over her. “May I have a word?” He asks quietly, not meeting her eyes. “While your companions are, ah,” he flicks his head in the direction of the commotion, “distracted.”

 

Against her better judgment, she nods, rising quietly to follow him to a quieter corner of the tavern. “Is there something you needed from me?” When he continues to stare down at her feet, she folds her arms. “Or is this an exercise in avoiding eye contact?”

 

He takes a deep breath, as though he is bracing himself for something.“When I was at the circle in Ferelden,” he starts slowly, almost uncertainly, “there was a ma –” he catches himself, “a woman who I fell in love with. Or I thought I loved her. I was young, barely a man, trapped inside of the ideals that the Order bestowed upon me. But she,” he shakes his head. “Maker, she was one of the most beautiful things I had seen in quite some time. I can’t remember what she looked like, or the way her laugh sounded, but I know that I had never seen anything – anyone – like her before. Until I met you.”

 

Vaati’s mouth is sewn shut as he continues, his tongue tripping clumsily over a confession she had never thought would leave his lips. “I was assigned to watch over her Harrowing.” He says, “Looking back I think it was a test for me as much as it was for her. I think they realized that I was soft on her. That I was too entangled in my boyish infatuation. So they designated me to deliver the killing blow should things go,” he shudders, “wrong. And wouldn’t you know, they did. They went about as wrong as they could go.” Tears spring to his eyes, teetering on the verge of spilling over his cheeks. “I was a child, Vaati, forced to strike down the woman I had loved. I thought it was magic that ripped her from me, magic that turned her into something I had to destroy. The same way the magic had driven Uldred to the point of madness. The same magic that sent Meredith spiraling into chaos.” He runs his hand through his hair, his eyes wild. “Every moment, every trauma I’ve ever encountered has been shaped by magic.”

 

She is about to interrupt when he grips her upper arms and draws her in closer. “But it wasn’t the magic,” he says breathlessly, squeezing her arms tightly. “It wasn’t the magic alone, at least.”

 

“So you’ve had a revelation, Cullen. I’m happy for you, I really am, but –”

 

“I haven’t been good to you,” he says, cutting her off. “I haven’t been good to anyone. But you,” he shakes his head. “Maker’s breath, it sounds like something out of one of Varric’s serials, but when I look at you, it makes me want to change. It makes me want to be good,” his hand strays to her face, thumb stroking her cheek lightly. “It makes me want to be good enough for you.” His thumb runs over her lips. “I shouldn’t have said what I did. I should’ve thought about how it would’ve affected you.” When she asks which time, he chuckles. “Every time, from the moment you swept into my life, I’ve been nothing but clumsy. But no more.” There is a promise in those words, a darkness hidden in the husky tones of his voice.

 

Vaati’s heart flutters, her cheeks flushing under his touch. She knows she shouldn’t believe him, knows that just a few weeks ago he was the man unable to love her unabashedly. That he was the same man whose cold eyes tracked her every move, every cell in her body set aflame by his hateful stare.

 

She doesn’t know whether it’s the warmth of the ale still fresh in her chest, or perhaps the nostalgia of her parents’ own romance that causes her to rest her hand over his. He inhales sharply as she places a kiss in the center of his ungloved palm, the world stopping around them for the briefest of moments.

 

Her thoughts had cleared after the Shrine of Dumat, but as Cullen draws her out of the warmth of the tavern and into the night air, she senses that the fog is far from gone.

 


	13. Out of Body, Out of Mind

_How naïve you are_ , she thinks, _to be swayed by those gilded words and sugar tones_. Vaati stares up through the hole in the ceiling as Cullen’s head dips between her parted thighs, her thoughts somewhere far away from the drafty above-study bedroom. Her eyelids flutter with each broad stroke of his tongue, breath hitching in her throat. _You could’ve made him work for it a little more._

 

Cullen’s hands are rough against her skin, strong as they push her thighs open impossibly wider. She can hear her quickened breathing, the sound mixing with the hums of approval coming from the man between her legs. Despite her body responding as is expected, her mind is somewhere far away. It’s almost as though she is no longer an inhabitant of herself, and she stares down at the woman sprawled on the bed with a sickly mixture of disdain and pity. _What are you looking for?_ She asks almost accusingly, watching as her back arches, hips grinding up to meet his hungry tongue. _Do you think he could love you? Could love you completely and totally, with no hesitation?_

She wants to cry. A strangled sound, one that she knows bears the threat of tears, escapes her throat as his calloused fingers part her like a flower. He mistakes this noise for one of pleasure, or perhaps one of nerves, and he trails kisses from the inside of her thighs, up her stomach, and to the crook of her neck. His words are unintelligible, lost in the curling tendrils of her hair. But they sound sweet, they sound every bit as reassuring as a golden boy like him means them to be.

 

She almost wishes she were more present in the moment. She wishes that her thighs were clenching out of pleasure, rather than an animalistic desire to escape. She wishes that she could focus on his encouraging moans, that she could ignore those dark, accusatory eyes that glared her down from behind her own eyelids. Another sob threatens to escape her throat, and for a moment she is almost grateful that he swallows it in a kiss that would have been nothing short of breathtaking in any other set of circumstances. Vaati tries to lose herself in the moment, tries to focus on tangling her fingers in the wavy sunbeams of his hair.

 

Cullen catches her lower lip between his teeth, sucking heartily before his tongue darts into her mouth, mimicking the controlled thrusts of his fingers at her core. She wraps her arms around his neck, unsure of whether she is clinging to him for dear life, or preventing him from sitting up and realizing that he is the only one taking any sort of pleasure in their post-confessional activities.

 

Her breath leaves her lips in quick bursts, the heat pooling in her stomach pushing her further and further into the recesses of her mind. Cullen escapes her clutches, propping himself up and staring into her face, a look of near-triumph dancing on the smirk that tilts his lips. She feels her world unraveling around her, her climax sending her tumbling over the edge and down into the dark waters of her own self-loathing. As every muscle in her body clenches around him, she feels the dam burst, the tears flowing freely down her cheeks as an animalistic sound leaves her throat.

 

It is somewhere lost in that noise that is neither moan nor shriek that she hears the unmistakable tone of one of Cullen’s preferred scouts coming from the office below. “Commander,” he says bashfully, having the hearing capabilities to understand just what he has walked into, “may I have a word?”

 

“Maker’s breath.” Cullen grimaces down at her apologetically, dipping down low to brush the tears from her eyes and kiss her deeply. “That,” he breathes out, his fingers sliding slowly out of her. “ _You_ are incredible.” Pausing to kiss her again, he sits up at the sound of the insistent scout. “Maker’s tears, I’ll be down in a moment!”  

 

Vaati waits until his weight leaves the bed to open her eyes, and she sees him shuffling about the room in search of adequate clothing. It’s almost enough to return her composure, the sight of him naked and scrounging around the floor, and she almost laughs when he holds up a pair of indistinct brown breeches and asks, “Are these yours, or mine?”

 

“I don’t think those are going to do you any good,” she says, drawing her knees to her chest. When he looks at her quizzically, she gestures. “I’m almost certain he’ll be too focused on your glaring erection to think that those are not your usual trousers.” Her tone holds a lightness she doesn’t feel, and she wishes that the thought didn’t make her feel quite so hypocritical.

 

He looks down, reddens, and swears; whipping around and muttering furiously with his back turned to her. She listens for a moment and realizes that he’s repeating the Chant of Light.  When she jokes that this view is not necessarily better or worse, he looks over his shoulder. “I can’t say that this has left off where I had hoped it would.” At the sound of his name floating up the ladder from the office, he stomps an impatient foot against the crumbling wooden floor. “Maker’s breath, Jim, I’m coming!” At the sound of Vaati’s snort, he blushes, “I’ll only be a minute.”

 

Scrambling into the trousers, he throws on a loose cotton shirt hanging over the door of the dresser. “You should rest, you’ve had a,” Vaati doesn’t mistake the pride in his voice, “you’re had a long evening.” He kisses her chastely before moving in for something more intimate. For a minute she allows herself to kiss back, allows herself the giddiness of feeling wanted for the moment, before it can be replaced by crippling doubt.

 

She waits until Cullen’s head disappears down the ladder, waits until his voice is somewhere lost along the battlements. Lying in the dark, in the bed of a man who may or may not love her, she presses her fists against her eyes and allows herself to sob.

**Author's Note:**

> Anyone who knows me knows that I have a very complicated relationship with Cullen (in that I hate him), but that's not going to stop me from writing a fic about him (albeit one that does more than put him on an indestructible pedestal).


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